When widows speak

 I have been to three funerals when the widow spoke.

One has haunted me for nineteen years. She was the wife of a college ministry pastor who died, painfully and slowly, of some kind of disease. She wailed. And spoke about how it was like all that was left of her was steel girders and she was a shell. I shuddered.

Later she spoke again before she started that week’s bible study and talked about how important it was to try and stay ‘normal’ for her kids.

The next widow was a writer friend. She spoke like a poet, of course, and I sniffled and cried and thought: imma not make a bit of sense if anything happens to my husband. I’m going to full on ugly cry and maybe heehaw into the microphone until people squirm uncomfortably.

And the third was a chef. I swear before us she cooked up the love of her life’s beautiful life and we gobbled it up.

I have also heard widows speak as I sit across from them drinking coffee or sharing a meal. I would love to tell you I cooked them one but I’m afraid Schlotzsky’s will have to do until I retire. 

Sometimes they just need someone to listen. But sometimes, dear reader, you need to listen to a widow. For there is something deep and holy in their words. If you know me in real life and lack this let me know. I can introduce you.