A life etched in stone
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"Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity."
~Henry Van Dyke
It’s been three years. Three years since I said goodbye to my husband for the last time. Since I watched his casket close. Since he was lowered into the ground.
Three years.
They say time heals wounds. I’m not sure about that – mine aren’t exactly healed. They sort of scabbed over, sure, but they’re not healed. I think whoever said that was definitely not talking about the wound of grief.
One thing I’ve learned for sure: Grief doesn’t heal with time.
I think it lessens a little, maybe. I think it transforms a lot. It’s like water – when it starts out, it’s a liquid and you can’t find a way to get anything solid under your feet. Everywhere is wet because you are overwhelmed with grief. Even when you think you’ve started to get your bearings, the water still is – the grief still is – and you can’t seem to find dry clothes or a break from the wet.
But eventually, it starts to freeze. It’s becomes this heavy thing that’s just always there, on the edge of your life. You’re not always wet – you’re not always overwhelmed with it. You are a little cold, so you can’t forget it. There’s always a potential it’ll melt and you’ll be back at square one. And it’s still pretty heavy to carry. But, most days you’re surviving.
It can almost even start to feel a little like you’re thriving.
But then something happens and it melts a little. Your shoes get wet. Not as much as before, but enough that you have to take some time to reframe.
And thus it goes. Life continues. The grief stays. Always.
Something you don’t expect when you turn 30 is that you need to pick out your headstone. Now, I’m more than a few years beyond 30 now, closer to 40 these days. But still – who thinks they need their headstone at 40?
My husband certainly didn’t. And here we are.
It’s been three years and I haven’t gotten him a headstone.
Some folks probably read that and think it’s just awful. I don’t know, honestly, because most folks have the good sense to not say anything about a thing like that – at least not to my face.
But I recognize it’s a little odd.
I recognize the need is there. I admit that I need to do it. Logically, I know this.
But logic is hard to apply when you’re thinking about your mortality. And even harder to apply when you’re dealing with grief, too. Plus, you know, these things aren’t free.
So, my husband remains in a grave without a headstone. It still has his simple marker from the funeral home. I’ve tried placing things there over the years, temporary things to signify his grave. But the thing about a temporary marker? It’s temporary. It’s not made to last.
Not like something etched in stone.
And that’s the crux of it all, I guess. At the end of the day, how does one prepare themselves to see their spouse’s name and dates in stone?
I know it doesn’t change anything to not have it. It's not like he's going to magically walk in the front door. But it certainly brings a different weight to the situation.
And every time I start to think about it, I feel the ice melting. The water starts to rise and the overwhelm starts to kick in.
Because it’s so much more than a stone. It’s a representation of Jim, of me, and of our lives. That’s a decision that can’t be taken lightly – how does one decide the best way to represent us in a monument lasting, well, a very long time?
A stone that tells our story long after everyone who knew us is gone, too?
But I know it can’t, not really. A stone can’t tell the story of our love, of our life. It simply can’t live up that expectation. It’s too much. I know this.
And yet. Knowing it’s one of the last things I can do for my husband, it’s one of the last ways to represent the man he was and the life we shared, I want it to. I want it to do all of that and more.
So I ponder.
Instead of planning for ways to celebrate our 10 year anniversary last fall, I looked at headstone ideas.
Instead of planning a party for his birthday, I looked at headstone prices.
Instead of planning our future, I’m planning a memorial in stone.
I’m not sure why I felt compelled to finally put these thoughts to paper. To be honest, I haven’t felt very creative in a long while. I suppose it’s that weight I carry everywhere in my mind.
But, perhaps, if you’re reading this you can take one thought today: as morbid as it may sound, make the plans for how you want to be remembered. Plan the funeral, the headstone, and the final end for your earthly vessel. Save your family the trouble.
Because deciding all of this stuff alone is a level of stress no one should have to face. So if you love your family, give them direction. Make the plans.
And then? Then live your life so that when the time comes you have no regrets. That’s the part I’m working on now. Because when I do finally take my place, I want to do it knowing I lived my life in the best way I could.
Life is short. Live it well. Love deeply. Because at the end of it all, love is something that makes it all worth the trip.
Three years.
They say time heals wounds. I’m not sure about that – mine aren’t exactly healed. They sort of scabbed over, sure, but they’re not healed. I think whoever said that was definitely not talking about the wound of grief.
One thing I’ve learned for sure: Grief doesn’t heal with time.
I think it lessens a little, maybe. I think it transforms a lot. It’s like water – when it starts out, it’s a liquid and you can’t find a way to get anything solid under your feet. Everywhere is wet because you are overwhelmed with grief. Even when you think you’ve started to get your bearings, the water still is – the grief still is – and you can’t seem to find dry clothes or a break from the wet.
But eventually, it starts to freeze. It’s becomes this heavy thing that’s just always there, on the edge of your life. You’re not always wet – you’re not always overwhelmed with it. You are a little cold, so you can’t forget it. There’s always a potential it’ll melt and you’ll be back at square one. And it’s still pretty heavy to carry. But, most days you’re surviving.
It can almost even start to feel a little like you’re thriving.
But then something happens and it melts a little. Your shoes get wet. Not as much as before, but enough that you have to take some time to reframe.
And thus it goes. Life continues. The grief stays. Always.
Something you don’t expect when you turn 30 is that you need to pick out your headstone. Now, I’m more than a few years beyond 30 now, closer to 40 these days. But still – who thinks they need their headstone at 40?
My husband certainly didn’t. And here we are.
It’s been three years and I haven’t gotten him a headstone.
Some folks probably read that and think it’s just awful. I don’t know, honestly, because most folks have the good sense to not say anything about a thing like that – at least not to my face.
But I recognize it’s a little odd.
I recognize the need is there. I admit that I need to do it. Logically, I know this.
But logic is hard to apply when you’re thinking about your mortality. And even harder to apply when you’re dealing with grief, too. Plus, you know, these things aren’t free.
So, my husband remains in a grave without a headstone. It still has his simple marker from the funeral home. I’ve tried placing things there over the years, temporary things to signify his grave. But the thing about a temporary marker? It’s temporary. It’s not made to last.
Not like something etched in stone.
And that’s the crux of it all, I guess. At the end of the day, how does one prepare themselves to see their spouse’s name and dates in stone?
I know it doesn’t change anything to not have it. It's not like he's going to magically walk in the front door. But it certainly brings a different weight to the situation.
And every time I start to think about it, I feel the ice melting. The water starts to rise and the overwhelm starts to kick in.
Because it’s so much more than a stone. It’s a representation of Jim, of me, and of our lives. That’s a decision that can’t be taken lightly – how does one decide the best way to represent us in a monument lasting, well, a very long time?
A stone that tells our story long after everyone who knew us is gone, too?
But I know it can’t, not really. A stone can’t tell the story of our love, of our life. It simply can’t live up that expectation. It’s too much. I know this.
And yet. Knowing it’s one of the last things I can do for my husband, it’s one of the last ways to represent the man he was and the life we shared, I want it to. I want it to do all of that and more.
So I ponder.
Instead of planning for ways to celebrate our 10 year anniversary last fall, I looked at headstone ideas.
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Instead of planning a party for his birthday, I looked at headstone prices.
Instead of planning our future, I’m planning a memorial in stone.
I’m not sure why I felt compelled to finally put these thoughts to paper. To be honest, I haven’t felt very creative in a long while. I suppose it’s that weight I carry everywhere in my mind.
But, perhaps, if you’re reading this you can take one thought today: as morbid as it may sound, make the plans for how you want to be remembered. Plan the funeral, the headstone, and the final end for your earthly vessel. Save your family the trouble.
Because deciding all of this stuff alone is a level of stress no one should have to face. So if you love your family, give them direction. Make the plans.
And then? Then live your life so that when the time comes you have no regrets. That’s the part I’m working on now. Because when I do finally take my place, I want to do it knowing I lived my life in the best way I could.
Life is short. Live it well. Love deeply. Because at the end of it all, love is something that makes it all worth the trip.
"Love doesn't make the world go 'round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile." ~Franklin P. Jones
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