Twenty years after being widowed - I still felt married, until I heard a sermon on singleness

I was widowed in my early fifties, but for more than twenty years I’ve always “felt married”. Until a recent church service dedicated to singleness made me think. On the day my husband died our curate – a semi-retired priest, turned up unannounced, carrying a plastic supermarket bag.  He took in the scene: four young men in shock and their wretched, stricken mother desparate for comforting words from God.

He dumped the bag. Then he spoke to them: “When your mother married she and your father became one. She’s just had half of her ripped away and that’s why she’s like this.” He prayed for me, picked up the bag and left. I never knew what was in it: he was not a person to do shopping but would always have a well worn – tatty even - bible about him. I guess it was that.

I felt I had a huge, open wound in my body and in the first few days I really thought I would die with the physical pain.

He was so right. I felt I had a huge, open wound in my body and in the first few days I really thought I would die with the physical pain. The first Christmas I could not make myself write a single card or letter – the act of writing "Love from" a standalone me was a physical impossibilty. A friend has beautifully overcome this by immediately signing off as herself and her late husband “at heart.” I wish I’d have thought of that!

It took a few years to be able to refer to the children as “my” not “our”, to refer to “I” not “we”. I talked to him, referred to him, consulted him and, during the acutely difficult times of weddings and the appearance of grandchildren was still conscious of the wound. I’m not unique I know, but everyone seems to handle it differently.

Eventually I was led to a different part of the country where I had never lived before and was not known. So that element of my identity as part of a couple, as parent and grandparent was also unknown. I slowly built an additional network of friends, colleagues, fellowship and interest groups and soon realised how much more relaxing that was! I was me – no background or context. I didn’t even have to mention his name. Just my status as a widow was sufficient.

In retrospect I suppose that gave my wound time and space to heal. Rather like it’s always a good idea to put a plaster on however small my grandson’s tiny scratch is: it stops him picking at it and re-opening it!

We all bear scars from injuries and traumas – physical, mental, emotional, psychological, medical procedures and loss.

So when I reflected after the service on singleness, I realised that the open wound caused by being torn asunder from my husband must have healed. And totting up my years of singleness, from birth to marriage and widowhood, I have been forty two years single versus thirty two married. I should be used to it by now!

The scar tissue remains. Of course. We all bear scars from injuries and traumas – physical, mental, emotional, psychological, medical procedures, loss etc. These fashion our lives. They are badges of honour displayed in our trophy cabinets: not hidden or concealed with cosmetics, denial or phony insouciance. They have not been “won”, definitely not wanted but are testament to the grace of God who has enabled us to survive and his desire that we keep on going – further up and further in.