When I look back on widowhood, survival didn’t come in large, dramatic moments, but in tiny little things.things.
A listening ear saved me. Not advice. Not explanations. Just someone willing to sit quietly while my words wandered, even if I told the same story more than once.
A healthy hug saved me. The kind that didn’t rush me past my sorrow, but simply helped me hold the weight for a few seconds.
Time over coffee saved me. Some mornings, the cup warmed my hands before anything else could reach my heart.
Time to think saved me.
Time to cry saved me.
Time to remember saved me.
A calendar saved me. After Terry died, time became strange. Days stretched too long while weeks disappeared. Little squares on paper proved I was still moving forward. A bill due. An appointment. A balloon release on the eighth. Another day survived.
My journal saved me. There were words I couldn’t say out loud, but I could write them down. Messy words. Angry words. Lonely words. Prayers that didn’t sound polished. The journal didn’t correct me or rush me. It simply held what my heart needed to spill.
A little dog with a big heart saved me. Oliver didn’t understand widowhood, but he understood me. He needed breakfast. He needed outside. He needed me to keep going. Sometimes love comes with fur, short legs, and a very important opinion about the day’s schedule.
Winterpast saved me. This home became the place where grief and life had to learn how to live together. The birds still came. The fountains still needed tending. The gardens still changed with the seasons.
Summer’s late sunshine saved me.
Autumn’s chill saved me.
Winter’s soft snow saved me.
Grocery delivery saved me. So did Subway. So did a freezer full of Marie Callender pot pies. Not every rescue looks poetic. Sometimes survival looks like food appearing at the front door because walking through a grocery store is too much.
God’s love saved me.
The Bible saved me.
Faith did not erase my grief. It walked through grief with me.
Nevada skies saved me. When my world felt very small, the sky reminded me there was still something vast above it.
Hope saved me.
Faith saved me.
Belief saved me.
Love saved me.
Not all at once. Healing came like little drops of water on dry ground. One conversation. One cup of coffee. One hug. One journal page. One sunrise. One small dog waiting by my chair. One pot pie. One prayer. One more day.
We often look for the big miracle, but sometimes God sends a thousand tiny ones.
During widowhood, I was not saved by one thing.
It was all those tiny little things.
And every one of them mattered.
Have a blessed weekend. I’ll be back on Monday.