When my husband went on an overseas trip and was away for two weeks, I had no idea I would miss him that much. The loneliness was like a thick fog that blinded me. I recall thinking, “Oh, God, is this what widowhood is like?”  

I discovered the answer to that question six months later when Jef died of a heart attack. It has now been 10 years since that day. Ten years since I’ve seen my beloved guy with that fuzzy hair and big green eyes. Ten years since we last sat on the deck and dreamed about future adventures.  

He was going to give a talk in Memphis, and I would go with him. To celebrate our 33rd anniversary, he had booked us a lovely condo on Treasure Island, Florida, with all the trimmings. Little did we know that I would have to cancel that reservation.  

I’ve been writing for decades, so spending an entire day alone in my study is nothing new. But in the days before widowhood, these hours of solitude were followed by a delicious meal cooked by Jef, plus a celebratory glass of wine on the deck.  

He also spent big chunks of time alone in his studio, wielding a brush upon canvas, as he shaped magical creatures like wizards, elves and hobbits from Middle-earth, his favorite place. He always prayed before painting and had rosary beads draped across his easel. When a painting was complete, he would invite me into his studio for an unveiling. I loved being the first one to see his work.  

The first few years without him were like suffering from a terrible disease, but there was no treatment for it. The only way through the pain was by walking directly into the fire and praying there would be something on the other side. I prayed for him, went to daily Mass and started taking Bible study. Frankly, I was amazed by the promise in Psalm 30: “You have turned my mourning into dancing.” Really, I wondered, would I ever dance again?  

One day I discovered a note he had written many years ago in the event of his death. He told me he would always love me and advised me that “there will always be wonder and joy in living.” As a way to heal, I sought something small each day to thank God for. A bird, a ladybug, a butterfly, a cloud. At some point the little seed of gratitude blossomed into a big, glowing flower in my heart, and I could look at his photos and smile at the memories. That one was taken at the beach on a family vacation, when he went body surfing. That other photo, I recalled fondly, was taken at a Middle-earth event. Gradually, I realized that although I have been without him for 10 years, we were so fortunate to be together for three decades.  

One day on a visit, one of my little cousins and I were laughing together in the kitchen—and just for fun, we created an impromptu dance. That moment taught me that God’s promises are sometimes fulfilled in ways we could never imagine. Amazingly enough, I had walked through the fire and discovered joy and dancing on the other side.