Refined by Fire

The idea of moving from my home threw me into a burning fire--
a fire-in-my-heart issue for sure.

Greg Jordan from Flickr

After three days, I developed a mindset, “You can do this Kat. You’ve moved before. Left things behind. Gave away and sold stuff. It only hurts for a little while—and look to the future.

You have a freedom to start over again. Less to maintain and another new beginning.  

The idea isn’t new to me. I’ve talked about moving since husband died almost four years ago. Always when the subject came up I’d say, “As long as Paddy dog is with me, I can’t move. He needs his yard.” Now Paddy is gone.

One day before his fourteenth birthday I had him put down.

“Although I can’t feel it, I’m pretty sure we are looking at cancer. His body is already shutting down,” The vet said.

After a few days of grief and rehashing Paddy memories with friends, I chose to prepare for future days.   

1. Leave green and white garbage bags in each closet. If I touch something in that closet that I haven’t used in the last year—pitch or give away.

2. Organize the basement by what needs to stay with the house, what I can sell and of course, those pitch or giveaway things. (I have one ledge completed. Great feeling.)

3. When I find cards from husband, children or grandkids remember the good times—but don’t save it. Either copy into the computer or pitch.

          What about the chess table

and other prized furniture husband built for me or the precious framed photos taken on our trips? For now, they remain where they are—

I don’t need to do everything in one day, one week or one month. 

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

~Jeremiah 29:11

A Memory Shared is a Memory Enjoyed

Last week I said I’d start downsizing tomorrow. The old cliché “Tomorrow never comes” seemed to lurk in the back of my mind—even when I typed that sentence. Only now it must be here. I’ve pulled out and uncovered more stuff than I knew I owned.

In 2008 I said, “Hon, you’ve got to move me to Oregon before you die. I won’t be able to manage this house.” A few weeks later we listed our house and husband set to downsizing.

I’m sure men that men by nature aren’t as emotionally attached to things as women. Soon after the house listed I searched for something I’d stored in the basement. That’s when I discovered husband had hauled truck loads of my treasures to the Salvation Army.  

“You said we needed to get rid of stuff,” he said. “Looked like junk to me. You certainly can’t take it to heaven with you.” His being right and his winsome grin lessened the tension. 

Wish husband were here. We could tackle a few memories and pitch them. I can just see the evening slide by.   

“Oh, Hon, do you remember when you sent me this card?” We’d read the card, smile and then talk about what happened that year and then pitch the card in the green garbage bag. 

When we pulled out the photo albums—now falling apart because of the glue gave out—we’d start at the beginning.

Talk about marriage. Our first dinky apartment. The first house we bought. When we found pictures of Husband, Me and our first daughter, we laugh about how we scrounged enough change to buy just one ice cream cone—a little bit for each of us.

“We didn’t have much but love back then,” husband would say and kiss me.

By the time midnight rolled around we might have emptied one tiny corner of a closet.

Well husband isn’t here and tomorrow has come—it’s time to do more than remember.    

Me? Procrastinat-Never

There is a sign hanging on my office wall, “I have not yet begun to procrastinate? To those visiting my home now and then, they might think I’m well organized and neat. But if they lived here a bit, they’d know better. I can put off a lot of stuff.

Years ago, before the steam iron, I’d gather the laundry from the clothes line and sprinkle those that needed ironing. I found out if you left those damp garments in a basket too long they mildewed. It didn’t take me long to figure out if you sprinkled, rolled and placed them in the refrigerator, they didn’t mildew and you could almost forget the need to iron.

Is that procrastination? And if it is, what does it have to do with downsizing?

Like sticking damp laundry in the refrigerator until tomorrow, I’ve attempted several times to clean out a drawer or closet this past weekt—I end up moving ‘stuff’ from one place to another—haven’t disposed of one thing yet.

In the process I found a treasure of my Grandma Dee’s. It hung on her wall from the time I gave it to her—about Christmas 1951—until died in March 1985. Some grandparents would be embarrassed by the simple gift written by a ten-year-old, but not my grandma. She loved me and my effort to create something just for her.

Over the years the glass in the frame broke. Grandma improvised with what looks like waxed paper. The hook on the back came off. Someone glued another one in its place.

In her later years, Grandma labeled all her belongings. When her heirlooms were divided up, I received my gift from thirty-five years before. It’s never hung on my wall, it’s been in the cedar chest? I had to keep it—well until now.

It’s only one thing going out the door, but that’s a great beginning for me—no procrastination here—took the photo, wrote the story and now it’s gone.

Wow, this downsizing is going to take a long, long time.

Five Downsizing Suggestions

Paddy ready to chase a squirrel 

When my Border Collie died I figured I needed to sell the house—after all, nothing tied me here. No husband and no Paddy dog. I met with Joyce my realtor friend. The next day grief slapped me in the face. Reality rained down my face. “Leave all my memories behind—once more?”

It isn’t the first time I’ve packed up to move. One week after the birth of our first child Husband moved us a  hundred miles away from family. Not fun—eighteen years-old with a new baby, no car and no phone. Yes, more than a few years ago.

I survived that move and ten more before we bought our present home. This is the longest I’ve lived in any of the homes. It’s also where husband invested his time and our money. He spent hours replacing ceilings, leveling floors and adding his texture/touch/paint to every wall in this house. To move means leaving all that behind.

Most people don’t let all their grief hang out for the world to see, but I’ve come to a place where I depend on my friends for support through times like this.

Last week when I sent out a “rather tear drenched” email, I received several suggestions on how to handle the necessary downsizing and preparation to move.

1.     Jami and Charlene said to take pictures. “Take your memories with you.”

2.     Deb said, “Give your prized possessions to people you know and care about.”

3.     Jan said, “This is a good thing. When you are done you’ll find a new freedom from those things.”

4.     Karla said, “You know Mom walked away from everything. It bothered me more than it did her when she gave everything in her house away.”

5.     Teresa said she’d talked with her husband and they were willing to store furniture husband made until our grandchildren might need or want them.

I’m thankful for friends and their wisdom. Now I’ve got to tackle the necessary—I’ll start tomorrow. 

This is husband reporting to work--I asked for his help more than once. He thought himself really cute. 

Let's face it, he was. 

He kept me laughing.

IT TAKES SO LITTLE TIME

Guest Author: Cec Murphey

http://www.cecilmurphey.com/

"Maria's" nephew had taken his own life. Deb Nayrocker emailed to tell me she had called the woman. "I'm touched that you called," Maria told her.

"I was the only one who called her," Deb wrote. "I didn’t understand why no one had talked to the grieving woman about her nephew's death."

Because Deb had read an illustration in Committed But Flawed, a book I wrote a decade ago, she wrote to me. In that book, I mentioned I served on the church council in Atlanta for our monthly business meeting. Instead of giving his report, one pastor lost control. For several minutes, through his tears, he told us about the painful division in his church and the personal attacks he'd received.

Although other members seemed embarrassed, after he stopped, we went on with business. Everyone acted as if nothing unusual had taken place.

For a couple of days afterward, I hesitated to do anything, assuming he had been inundated with compassionate calls. I finally phoned him to express my concern. For several minutes he unburdened himself. The situation was so bad it was affecting his health and his marriage.

One of the last things he said was, "You're the only one who has called."

The only one. Deb's experience. My experience. Both of us had reached out, assuming others had also expressed compassion. To hear there had been no others shocked us.

"It takes so little effort to encourage most people," I told my wife. "But it does take effort."

Isn't it sad that we don't reach out more often to those who hurt? We offer excellent excuses for our inaction: We don't know what to say; we assume others are reaching out; we don't feel qualified.

Years ago, I decided that I could claim such excuses (and perhaps a few additional ones), but that shouldn't stop me. I stopped worrying whether I might say the correct words or be number 400 to make contact.

When people hurt, I need to reach out. No matter how hesitantly or badly I speak, my message will get across: I care.

Yes, it takes so little effort, but it does take effort.

---

 The above article was printed in Cec's March 1, 2013 newsletter. If you are interested in receiving his newsletter, drop by his website and sign up. 

Personal News

Several of you have asked about my wife. At the pain clinic, they gave Shirley a steroid injection and she's better. They want to do it every three months.  NEW NEWS 03/25/13 SHIRLEY ARRIVED HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL. 

Two of my books release this month: Not Quite Healed: 40 Truths for Male Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse (written with Gary Roe) and I Believe in Healing: Real Stories from the Bible, History and Today (written with Twila Belk).

Sneaky Grief

Husband and I on coffee date in Fremont

Grief is sneaky. There is no warning of when it will overtake you, no “heads up today will be a blue day,” or no banner that flies through the sky to say, “Don’t listen to the radio today, you’ll hear a song Husband sang often.”

Grief doesn’t come with labels. It doesn’t say, “That movie will touch a sore spot,” or “If you use that cup you’ll think of Husband.” It doesn’t tell you not to use a fragrance, no you spray it and then the tears come.

Grief happens. It doesn’t matter if it’s three months or three years. It still happens.

What do you do with grief that sneaks in to rob your joy?

I’ve tried to ignore the feelings. That doesn’t work. Feelings are real—might as well acknowledge them and do something.

I’ve tried shopping. That doesn’t work—I’m reminded more of the times when Husband talked to the clerks. “I better be good to my wife or she might not feed me. She’s threatened that a time or too.” Often I leave the store empty handed knowing the tears will blast through any minute.

I’ve tried sleeping—for me to sleep eleven hours straight usually means I’m trying to ignore the inevitable. I drag myself from bed feeling worse than if I’d slept only six hours.

Often I wait too many hours before I call a friend. “Hey, how are you?” I ask.

Is it terrible if I say I feel better when they have more problems?

Still Lionhearted, Kat