Pushing Pause

"Good Friday is like pushing the pause button. When we pause and remember the cost…" 
maybe paraphrased, Pastor Tim Guptill, Good Friday service, Moncton Wesleyan Church (#Mdubs)

This is what Christians MUST do on Good Friday. And this is what grievers must do throughout their lives. No matter how much time has passed. No matter how fast or slow life is changing or moving forward. There are times when the heart cries out for a moment. A pause. A moment of silence, not orchestrated by an outside force during some memorial service, but a call from an inner voice that beckons us to push the pause button in the midst of life. To be still. And to remember.

In this moment, extended over several days, I push pause to sit in the memory of the love I shared and lost. The man I knew and held. The friend I laughed with. The companion I lived with…

In Lynn's death I lost:

• my husband
• my best friend
• my lover, intimate companion
• my safe haven
• a brother in Christ, spiritual fellowship
• my co-laborer in the gospel
• the man who fathered my children 
• the other parent of my children
• the fourth member of our family, the one who filled the fourth chair
• my source of joy, delight, and tremendous laughter 
• my fellow inquisitor and deliberator
• the other part of my "when two or three are gathered" (Matt 18:20) or "when two or three agree"(2 Cor 13:1), my prayer partner
• the co-leader of our family
• the spiritual leader or male covering over our family
• the one who loved food, cooking new things, and helping me with my diet
• the one who loved running errands for me no matter what time of day or how big or small the list
• the one I would sit and watch movies with on a quiet evening
• the one who would be coming home at the end of the day
• the one who listened to my deepest thoughts, fears, hopes, dreams
• the one who loved to travel and plan trips, who pulled me out into the world
• the administrator who filled out forms and helped with financing 
• the one who flattered me constantly and encouraged me on a consistent basis
• the one who romanced me with endless flowers and cards, usually over-the-top, well-planned dates and vacations
• the one who tried to help around the house and take care of outdoor jobs
• my social buffer, the one who carried the conversations of social networking
• my driver, who always loved to be the one behind the wheel. 
• the one I admired for his energy, integrity, and excellence in all things
• the one who told me every day that it was the best day of his life
• my helper in hospitality, the one who entertained
• the one who challenged me and pushed me forward
• the one who challenged my conservative understanding of God, church, people 
• the one who shared my love for music and worship
• my musical partner and accompanist, fellow artist

Also:

• the honorable position of being a wife
• being in society as a married couple and family, being invited to "couple" events
• the ministry we shared together
• the blood connection to Lynn's family in the US
• the excitement and experience of being "Lynn and Natasha"
• the connection and mediator between me and the local church
• the connection to many musical networks throughout the Maritimes
• the "couple friends" we enjoyed together 

I feel like that barely scratches the surface...

Plunging East looks different now. As life changes and unfolds, grief is not as much 100% of my time and energy. But it happens on an ongoing basis, as I discipline myself to push pause, to take moments, maybe each day, maybe each week, maybe each month, and sit in the memory of a beautiful man that I loved and lost. The world may keep turning, time may go forward, and life may continue on… But when I push pause, I grieve. I remember. And I honor my beloved husband Lynn.