Nine years have passed since my husband became one of the faithful departed. The raging grief of the early years has subsided, leaving an echo of sorrow in my heart.  

Now I can look at his photos in my bedroom and smile with a gratitude that deepens each day. After all, we had 33 years together! During that time, I returned to the Catholic Church, and he was received into the church at an Easter Vigil Mass. We also became godparents to a sweet baby named Sarah, who is all grown up now and the joy of my heart. During that time, Jef painted an amazing array of gorgeous scenes from Tolkien’s Middle-earth, while I wrote columns and books.  

We had a little boat called The Sea Moose in which we ventured around an island in the Gulf of Mexico. There we encountered manatees, sea otters, dolphins and an amazing array of birds. We went crabbing and ate the catch for supper. We walked out on the flats during low tide and spotted secret sea creatures hiding in the sand.  

Even though he is gone from this world, we are still close. I pray for him every day and offer my Holy Communion for him at every Mass. His easel still stands in the same spot in his studio with rosary beads draped across the corner. He prayed before he painted his canvases and asked God for inspiration. So many of his paintings have a supernatural gleam, which reminds me of Christ, who is the light of the world. Jef himself appears in some of his works, since he used to joke that he was too cheap to hire a model.  

Years ago, we were vacationing with family at a Florida beach and witnessed a mother turtle returning to the sea after laying her eggs. She was so heavy and lumber some, but she slowly made her way back home. Then on our very last trip, shortly before he died, we were taking a morning walk and came upon volunteers from the turtle rescue center, who were digging out baby turtles from the sand. The other babies had clawed their way out during the night, but these turtles needed help. While we stood cheering them on, the tiny turtles scooted seaward, following their deepest instinct to go home.  

On that trip, there were a number of premonitions about his death. One morning, I watched the rising and falling of Jef’s chest as he was breathing, and I realized that if his heart stopped beating, my life would careen into darkness. He was worried about something and I said, “Sometimes the only way through it, is through it.” In short, I was saying it’s useless to try to avoid getting burned by the fire of our emotions. The next day, he got caught in a strong riptide. He was upset and said, “You almost lost me today.” Little did we know I would lose him two days later.  

I soon learned that the only way through the searing, unbearable fire of loss is by walking directly into it. One night, I was in so much pain I wanted to do anything to stop it. I knew this was a dangerous thought, so I wrote to my friend who is a priest. His compassionate response kept me from going off the deep end.  

Fortunately, there were surprising moments of light. The times I spent with my Florida family, where the children call me “Aunt Lorraine.” Growing closer with my friends’ little ones, who had also loved Jef, and plied me with affection. Lunches with my dearest friends, who never let me down.  

Finally, I saw how his death changed my life forever. I would never be the same person again. Still, the more I wrote about widowhood, the more I realized how many other women were yearning for understanding. Out of the darkness of his death, a ministry of helping others was born for me. It was all part of God’s perfect plan for our lives.  

I will pray for my dearly departed husband and love him for the rest of my life, until we are walking together along the shore of our true home.