By Josie Barone
If there is no one to notice, does it really matter?
If there is no one to notice, do I matter?
I shaved my legs today–a feat because it’s likely been since New York since the razor touched the leg. But before gross enters in, I am hardly a gorilla, more like a peach.
Still, why bother? I wear running shorts, capris, boxers at night. No one is brushing beside me other than the occasional “rub-by” of the four-legged variety, when one leans into the leg for petting.
What’s the point?
I used to wonder why, at Christmas, if someone lived far away from population, why bother with an outdoor light display, if no one else sees.
If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear, does it make a sound?
I wonder the same about many things as of late.
Does it matter if I make my bed, if no one sees my bedroom besides me?
Does it matter if I shave my legs, if no one is around to brush against them?
Does it matter?
Do I matter?
I am sitting with this because there is something deeper going on that my emotions have yet to connect to…
…
I’m relating with one woman in the Bible as of late, not because I too am female (Though one may question if I let hair growth continue, without cut), but because of what I am noticing.
The women sick for 12 years?
She was alone in the wide open.
She was alone in the crowd.
Alone.
But here is Jesus, entering into her moment, when no one notices, acknowledging her touch before anything else.
He noticed.
He felt her pain.
She mattered.
…
I have a small amount of his hair saved in a plexiglass jar. The hospice caretaker came in hours before he died, cleaned him up, and the space at the hairline, the place where his black hair was streaked with gray– I snipped it and tucked it away, somehow sensing the need for it later.
I used to go to that spot often, twirling it…
How can someone who was so sick have such healthy looking hair?
I pull it out on occasion, rub between my thumb and finger, allowing emotions to move in.
Remembering the times I’d rub the back of his head while he drove.
Tears. Healing though as I place it back, and breathe a sigh, similar to relief.
An 8 X 10 pic of us, smiling, sits nearby.
The picture can’t capture his touch.
I miss his touch.
Pictures can’t capture touch.
…
A friend told me early on to not run into the arms of another man in my pain. Oh, no worries there. One time, maybe six months ago, a man put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close without my permission, and I nearly cracked in the middle of a crowded room. The air escaped my lungs, as I made my way to my vehicle and choked and sobbed all the way home.
He entered Bill’s space. Likely innocent, but without permission.
…
I miss his voice too.
I have several old voicemails on my phone, I find myself yearning to hear him. I tell myself, “Don’t go there.” But I still do.
At the first, “Hey Baby,” tears escape.
Hearing hurts.
But strangely, it heals.
…
I made my bed. The wood wall that serves as a headboard–Bill built that.
Beautiful.
Every night, a smile settles on my face at the sight of it, as a mental pic enters of him, sweating all over the place in the midst of hard labor, while I act as foreman of the project, telling him, “No, that one can’t go there. Put this one here instead.”
…
Yes, a tree makes a sound. And yes, someone always hears it fall to the ground.
And, what I’m noticing is this:
It matters.
I matter.
Peace settles in, as I feel the arms of Jesus pull me close.
Josie Barone is on a journey to rekindle a desire to live after losing the love of her life. Day by day. Step by step.
This post first appeared here. Cover photo by Olu Gbadebo on Unsplash.
Dear Josie,
Thank you so much for sharing this. It ministered to me this morning. My husband has been gone for nearly 6 years, but I still occasionally experience the exact things you express.
Beautifully written.
Thank you for your words of encouragement. This week I am embarking on the two-year mark, and am looking forward to more of the days when I feel fully alive again. Time. Thank you.
Charlotte, I replied once, but it was lost in cyber space! Thank you for sharing with me. It gives me hope to see people further down the timeline and knowing I will get there too one day. I appreciate you.
Yes, it does get better. Or as my supervisor told me shortly after John died, it gets different.
The heart wrenching pain gets less intense, but there are times when it returns with a vengeance. When that happens I just breathe, pray and allow myself to experience the sorrow.
Praying for you.
Thanks for sharing how you are dealing with grief. I’m praying for you as you are in this grieving time. May God show you how much you mean to him. May he wrap his arms around you and give you true comfort.
Thank you so much. I appreciate you and your care for me.
Ahh, Jessie, thank you so much for this. I have walked this journey with my SIL as we grieved together the loss of my brother/her husband. Grieving is hard work and I hear and see your grief through your writing. Jesus has you. Everyday. Always.
Thank you Carol. I am grateful to be able to share my journey, and be reminded of HIS Presence, always. Yes, i love this…always.
Thank you so much for sharing your feelings and thoughts with us. Your words touched me very deeply.
Thank you Pearl. I am grateful to have the chance to share with the hope it touches someone else, besides my own healing.
Beautiful. These words. You. Yours and Bill’s love. This journey. Just beautiful. Thank you for sharing your tenderness: brave and beautiful.
I am so very grateful to know you, and walk through life with you.
Love your words, love your heart, love your faith in God!
Thank you Tanya!
Thank you for your encouragement!
Josie. So beautiful. So heartfelt and touching to me in so many ways. Thank you for the beautiful reminder that It does matters, You matter, We all matter as God sees us & sees us through it all. Thank you for sharing your heart.
I am so glad our pain can be used to touch other people…It makes the pain less crippling. Thank you for your encouraging words.
It certainly does matter. When you share things like this never underestimate how critical it is to unfolding of the entire universe. Be proud.
Thank you Frank for your words…that matter to me. I am proud to share the impact his life had on mine. He is missed. Appreciate you.
He is missed. He’s just physically gone from this narrow slice of reality that we live it. I can still sense him laughing at my stubborn foolishness from time to time. I have no doubt that it’s harder for you but don’t be afraid to hold that hair or look at pictures.
This is such a beautiful, moving piece. Sometimes it’s so hard to describe why something that seems meaningless to others matters so much to us. But you’ve conveyed that in such a lovely way here. It certainly does matter. Thanks for writing.
Thank you for sharing with me. I appreciate your words of affirmation, and they matter. You matter too.
Thank you for sharing with me. I appreciate your words of affirmation, and they matter. You matter too.
Thank you for putting this out there. I have not experienced this kind of loss, but I know the feeling of isolation that you describe so beautifully. I do pray that as you courageously share your journey, healing will come in waves, just as the grief does.