I didn’t know what I could do about sitting in darkness. I was alone and afraid and more than a bit angry. My husband, the procrastinator and saver of all things he deemed savable, had left me with a basement filled with dusty cartons of old magazines, expensive woodworking tools that he rarely used and mementos of different kinds. I was not a saver and in my grief I set to work cleaning up the mess that he left behind.

As I adjusted to life without him, and I loved him dearly, I realized that I needed to get rid of inner stuff that I no longer needed. At first I tried to be more social, but that did’t work for me. Not only that, it was not my spiritual destiny to have much of an outer life.

I had lots of time and I spent it pondering the truth. When Bob was dying, I found it didn’t help me at all because I was in crisis mode. Burnt out and bitter at the end, I was just flopping around in a sea of emotions. But now the silence was available once again.

Years have gone by and bit by bit I have been weaving the word into a shawl of light. I thought it was to warm me alone but now and then others say they felt it around their shoulders as they wept alone.

I have always said I don’t mind making you cry when I tell you how sad my life was. The child I buried, the love of my life I walked through the fire with. It was all too much to contain, so I begin sharing it online. Some of you had been on similar journeys.

My words arrive as sparks of light and as I sit down and begin to type, they form into essays. I never doubt them; if I do, I end up editing out the best parts. I keep telling my story because that is what I feel called to do. You see, even though it has been long enough to heal from the grief, the aftereffects last forever. I might as well quit fighting them.

But back to the shawl. It is a one-size-fits all. As you read an essay, you may find it draping around your shoulders perfectly. Then I have done what I set out to do. Comfort comes in very small doses and it is always unpredictable. The cup of tea, the realization that it is quite all right to be strong and broken at the same time, the deep knowing that every word Christ spoke bears fruit if you pay close enough attention. He said, “I am the bread of life.” He meant that when you draw near enough to Him, His energy flows into you like a crystal stream. What else could I have need of?

Vicki Woodyard