Widow Mom Quotes

This is an ode to all of those that have never asked for one. A thank you in words to all of those that do not do what they do so well for the thanking. This is to the mothers. This is to the ones who match our first scream with their loudest scream; who harmonize in our shared pain and joy and terrified wonder when life begins. This is to the mothers. To the ones who stay up late and wake up early and always know the distance between their soft humming song and our tired ears. To the lips that find their way to our foreheads and know, somehow always know, if too much heat is living in our skin. To the hands that spread the jam on the bread and the mesmerizing patient removal of the crust we just cannot stomach. This is to the mothers. To the ones who shout the loudest and fight the hardest and sacrifice the most to keep the smiles glued to our faces and the magic spinning through our days. To the pride they have for us that cannot fit inside after all they have endured. To the leaking of it out their eyes and onto the backs of their hands, to the trails of makeup left behind as they smile through those tears and somehow always manage a laugh. This is to the patience and perseverance and unyielding promise that at any moment they would give up their lives to protect ours. This is to the mothers. To the single mom’s working four jobs to put the cheese in the mac and the apple back into the juice so their children, like birds in a nest, can find food in their mouths and pillows under their heads. To the dreams put on hold and the complete and total rearrangement of all priority. This is to the stay-at-home moms and those that find the energy to go to work every day; to the widows and the happily married. To the young mothers and those that deal with the unexpected announcement of a new arrival far later than they ever anticipated. This is to the mothers. This is to the sack lunches and sleepover parties, to the soccer games and oranges slices at halftime. This is to the hot chocolate after snowy walks and the arguing with the umpire at the little league game. To the frosting ofbirthday cakes and the candles that are always lit on time; to the Easter egg hunts, the slip-n-slides and the iced tea on summer days. This is to the ones that show us the way to finding our own way. To the cutting of the cord, quite literally the first time and even more painfully and metaphorically the second time around. To the mothers who become grandmothers and great-grandmothers and if time is gentle enough, live to see the children of their children have children of their own. To the love. My goodness to the love that never stops and comes from somewhere only mothers have seen and know the secret location of. To the love that grows stronger as their hands grow weaker and the spread of jam becomes slower and the Easter eggs get easier to find and sack lunches no longer need making. This is to the way the tears look falling from the smile lines around their eyes and the mascara that just might always be smeared with the remains of their pride for all they have created. This is to the mothers.

Darla shook her head, a small smirk on her lips. “You’re such a mom,” she told Katherine. Katherine stared at her, puzzled. “You’re a mom, too,” she said softly. “No, I gave birth. That doesn’t make me a mom. Not like you.” A look passed between the two women like none they had ever shared before. For a split second, Katherine felt a slight connection. “Well, you rest. I’ll check on you later.” She turned and left the room, a funny, unexplainable feeling inside her.

Loving our parents, we bring them into us. They inhabit us. For a long time I believed that I could not bear to live without Mom and Dad—I could not bear to “outlive” them—for to be a daughter without parents did not seem possible to me.

People hate these shows, but their hatred smacks of denial. It's all there, all the old American grotesques, the test-tube babies of Whitman and Poe, a great gauntlet of doubtless eyes, big mouths spewing fantastic catchphrase fountains of impenetrable self-justification, muttering dark prayers, calling on God to strike down those who would fuck with their money, their cash, and always knowing, always preaching. Using weird phrases that nobody uses, except everybody uses them now. Constantly talking about 'goals.' Throwing carbonic acid on our castmates because they used our special cup annd then calling our mom to say, in a baby voice, 'People don't get me here.' Walking around half-naked with a butcher knife behind our backs. Telling it like it is, y'all (what-what). And never passive-aggressive, no. Saying it straight to your face. But crying...My God, there have been more tears shed on reality TV than by all the war widows of the world. Are we so raw? It must be so. There are simply too many of them-too many shows and too many people on the shows-for them not to be revealing something endemic. This is us, a people of savage sentimentality, weeping and lifting weights.

Less than two weeks ago, my husband was perfectly normal ... and now he has a brain tumor? How can this be our life?

Have I said yet that we were lucky to be surrounded by so many amazing people, both near and far?

Still standing. I think this is a pretty good description of where I was at this point.

I felt like I was failing at widowhood. I missed my husband, but no one knew that when they looked at me. They just saw a mom with blonde highlights going to yoga, picking up her daughter from school, buying groceries at Trader Joe’s. And now I was at a party with a date when I should have been home, grieving, all alone. I didn’t look like a widow. I wasn’t acting like a widow. But I felt like a widow. I guess I was just widowish.

When my dad died suddenly, my widowed mom couldn’t afford my college tuition, so Morrie and his friend Jake Garber, my dad’s boss, and my aunt and uncle, all pitched in. Morrie was the driving force behind it all, though. I did not come to him for help. He just came to me one day and said, “You can’t afford this,” and that he would make it happen. It was a powerful lesson in community for me: When you are in a real one, never, ever say to someone in need: “Call me if you need help.” If you want to help someone, just do it.

Jack renovated the cabin without being asked, while I stayed at Doc’s house,” Mel said. “About the time I was going to make a break for it, he showed it to me. I said I’d give it a few more days. Then my first delivery occurred and I realized I should give the place a chance. There’s something about a successful delivery in a place like Virgin River where there’s no backup, no anesthesia… Just me and Mom… It’s indescribable.” “Then there’s Jack,” Brie said. “Jack,” Mel repeated. “I don’t know when I’ve met a kinder, stronger, more generous man. Your brother is wonderful, Brie. He’s amazing. Everyone in Virgin River loves him.” “My brother is in love with you,” Brie said. Mel shouldn’t have been shocked. Although he hadn’t said the words, she already knew it. Felt it. At first she thought he was just a remarkable lover, but soon she realized that he couldn’t touch her that way without an emotional investment, as well as a physical one. He gave her everything he had—and not just in the bedroom. It was in her mind to tell Brie—I’m a recent widow! I need time to digest this! I don’t feel free yet—free to accept another man’s love! Her cheeks grew warm and she said nothing. “I realize I’m biased, but when a man like Jack loves a woman, it’s a great honor.” “I agree,” Mel said quietly. *

it isn’t also true for a poor single Christian mom in Haiti, it isn’t true. If a sermon promises health and wealth to the faithful, it isn’t true, because that theology makes God an absolute monster who only blesses rich westerners and despises Christians in Africa, India, China, South America, Russia, rural Appalachia, inner-city America, and everywhere else a sincere believer remains poor. If it isn’t also true for a poor single Christian mom in Haiti, it isn’t true. If doctrine elevates a woman’s married-with-children status as her highest calling, it isn’t true, because that omits single believers (whose status Paul considered preferable), widows, the childless by choice or fate or loss, the divorced, and the celibate gay. If these folks are second-class citizens in the kingdom because they aren’t married with children, then God just excluded millions of people from gospel work, and I guess they should just eat rocks and die. If it isn’t also true for a poor single Christian mom in Haiti, it isn’t true. Theology is either true everywhere or it isn’t true anywhere. This helps untangle us from the American God Narrative and sets God free to be God instead of the My-God-in-a-Pocket I carried for so long. It lends restraint when declaring what God does or does not think, because sometimes my portrayal of God’s ways sounds suspiciously like the American Dream and I had better check myself. Because of the Haitian single mom. Maybe I should speak less for God. This brings me to the question at hand, another popular subject I am asked to pontificate on: What is my calling? (See also: How do I know my calling? When did you know your calling? How can I get your calling? Has God told you my calling? Can you get me out of my calling?) Ah yes, “The Calling.” This is certainly a favorite Christian concept over in these parts. Here is the trouble: Scripture barely confirms our elusive calling—the bull’s-eye, life purpose, individual mission every hardworking Protestant wants to discover. I found five scriptures, three of which referred to

met him, he’d charm the shit out of them. Because that’s what he did. My mom started to lap the kitchen island. I knew what she was thinking. How could I go off script? This wasn’t how we did things in the Conner family. “I need to process this.” She stopped and pressed her palms into the counter. “I know it’s fast. We’ve only been dating a few months, but he’s—” I had planned to list my favorite things about him. He was smart, he was a gentleman, he was close with his own mom.

At the twenty-second house, which was right next door to Willie’s, the elderly widow, Mrs. Lima, answered the door. Yes, she would hire them to do both the walk and the driveway, she said, and she nodded at the price when Jackson mentioned it. “She’s not poor, is she?” Jackson asked uneasily after Mrs. Lima went back inside. “I don’t think so. Her husband owned the department store in the mall. She’s pretty crabby, though. We better do a good job.” They did a fine job, getting every bit of snow off right to the edges of the walk and driveway. When they finished they rang the doorbell, sweaty but pleased with themselves. Casually Mrs. Lima glanced at the driveway and sighted along the walk. “Just a minute,” she said. She dipped back inside her house. “Maybe she’ll give us a tip,” Jackson said. “Twelve dollars isn’t much for the ton of snow we shoveled.” “I don’t know,” Willie said doubtfully. “She had a big fight with my mom for cutting some roses off a bush that was growing over the fence into our yard. Mom says Mrs. Lima’s stingy.” How stingy they found out when Mrs. Lima returned and handed them each a five-dollar bill.

George, please sit down,” Luke said. “Visit a while.” “Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” George pulled a chair over from an empty table and sat right beside Maureen so that she was sandwiched between himself and Art. “What brings you back to town so soon?” he asked her. “I’m, ah, visiting.” “Fantastic,” he said. “A long visit, I hope.” Luke took his seat, chuckling as he did so. “I have a brother here right now—Sean. You might remember him as my best man. He just discovered he has a young daughter in the area. Mom is visiting us and getting to know her first granddaughter, Rosie, three and a half and smart as a whip.” “How wonderful!” George said enthusiastically. “You must be having the time of your life!” Maureen lifted a thin brow, wary of his reaction. “I am enjoying her, yes.” “First one? I suppose before too much longer the other boys will be adding to the flock.” “Only the married ones, I hope,” Maureen said. “Do you have grandchildren, Mr. Davenport?” “Oh, let’s not be so formal—I’m George. Only step-grandchildren. I had no children of my own, in fact. Noah’s the closest thing to a son I’ve ever had, but I started out as his teacher. I’m a professor at Seattle Pacific University. I’ve known him quite a few years now. I’m here to be his best man on Friday night. I hope you’re all coming to the wedding.” “Wouldn’t miss it,” Luke said, grabbing Shelby’s hand. “And…Maureen?” George asked pointedly. “I’m not sure,” she said evasively. “Well, try to come,” he said. “These Virgin River people know how to have a good time. In fact, I have an idea. Once I have my best-man duties out of the way, I suggest we go to dinner. I’ll take you someplace nice in one of the coast towns, though it’ll be hard to improve on Preacher’s cooking. But we deserve some time away from all these young people, don’t you think?” “Excuse me, George?” she asked. “I assume you were married?” “Twice, as a matter of fact. Divorced a long time ago and, more recently, widowed. My wife died a few years ago. Maybe we should pick an evening and exchange phone numbers,” he suggested. “That’s very nice of you, but no. I don’t go out with men.” “Really?” he asked, surprised by her immediate refusal. “And why is that?” “I’m a widow,” she said. “A single woman.” “What a coincidence. And I’m a single man. I’m all for free thinking, but I wouldn’t ask you to dinner were I married. Are you recently widowed?” Out of the corner of his eye, George saw Luke snicker and look away. “Yes,” Maureen said. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I was under the impression it had been years. When did you lose your husband, Maureen?” She looked a bit shocked to be put on the spot like that. It was apparent she was trying to gather her wits. She put out her hand. “It was so nice to see you again, Mr….George. I’m glad you sat and visited awhile. Maybe I’ll see you at the wedding this weekend if I’m not needed for anything else. I should probably get on the road—I have to drive to Eureka.” She stood and George did, as well. “Eureka? You’re not staying here in Virgin River with your son?” “I’m staying with a friend just down the street from my granddaughter so I’m free to pick her up after preschool. We spend most afternoons together. Really, nice seeing you.” She turned to Luke. “I’m going to head back to Viv’s, Luke. Good night, Shelby. ’Night, Art. Thanks for dinner, it was great as usual.” “Wonderful seeing you, too,” George said. “Try to come to Noah’s wedding. I guarantee you’ll enjoy yourself.” Luke

Luke gestured to Shelby to visit with George while he walked his mother to her car, but he had to move pretty quick to do that. Maureen was shrugging into her jacket as she exited the bar, apparently in a very big hurry to leave. “Hey, hey, hey,” Luke called after her with laughter in his voice. “Mom!” Maureen stopped and turned to him. “What was that?” She just tilted her head in a questioning way. “Excuse me?” “That! You aren’t recently widowed! You brushed him off. Totally.” “Oh that,” she said. “I’m not interested in dating anyone.” “Why, for heaven’s sake? George seems like a very nice guy. And he’s not exactly Stranger Danger—Noah’s known him for years. He was at our wedding. Maybe the two of you would enjoy yourselves.” She put a hand on his cheek. “That’s very sweet, Luke,” she said. “I’m just not interested.” “But why? Is there something about George you don’t like?” “Not really,” she said, shaking her head as if disinterested. “I don’t want to go out with a man.” She shivered. “Now, I need to get going. It’s a long drive and I’m cold.” He just stared at her for a second. He leaned toward her and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for coming out, Mom. Drive carefully.” He

Someone mentioned that the Johnny Cash songs I was practicing were appropriate for Dennis. I guess that's lucky--because those are the only Johnny Cash songs I know.

For the duration of Dennis's illness, I felt like Hester Prynne. I had the overwhelming sense that I was walking around with a giant 'FW' emblazoned on my shirt: "Future Widow.

Thinking about how many years--decades, actually--I'd deferred my dream of learning to play the guitar, I find it remarkable that I finally took it up not long before Dennis got sick.

It breaks my heart now to remember that Megan wanted to give Dennis the gift she made at school right away--in case Daddy dies before Christmas.

It wasn’t like any of the other men in town—most of whom she had known since preschool—ever paid her attention like that. For the first time in years, Jena felt like someone was looking at her. He wasn’t looking at Lowell’s widow, or Aaron and Low’s mom. Caleb looked at her.

The political policies that make life so difficult for single moms—lack of subsidized childcare, weakened child support enforcement, antiabortion laws, and loss of government assistance—find support from the Religious Right. The family model and social norms touted by complementarians stigmatize single mothers, adding emotional and psychological burdens to the financial ones. When conservative churches lament the “broken family” in order to push their congregants toward the godly model of the “traditional family,” they are not building up the sanctity of the family; they are stigmatizing those families who need their support and encouragement the most. Throughout the Old and New Testaments, God’s people are called to care for the widow and the orphan. We see it in the laws from the Torah, in the prophets’ admonitions against Israel and Judah, and in the model that Jesus sets for us in his interactions with women and children in his context. Families with single mothers are the widows and orphans of our day, and yet they experience a great deal of suffering because of the politics of the Religious Right and the disdain and disregard of many conservative Christians. The result of this idolatry (idolatry of “traditional” family and values) is a heavier burden laid on the backs of our modern-day widows. This is not just scapegoating—it is a lamentable reversal of what the Bible teaches us to do.

No profound remarks are required. The simplest message--I'm here and I care--is all that's needed.

I wish I'd made time to check in with the kids more. To start a conversation. To let them know that it was OK to be sad, and OK to be worried.

Every child deserves a chance to thrive--even if their parent has died.

I knew in my gut that the first time attending the Seattle Brain Cancer Walk would be in Dennis's memory--rather than in his honor.

Ask yourself this question: If my life is the same five years from now as it is today, would I be OK with that? If the answer is no--or especially if the answer is hell no--then now is the time to do something about it.

The laptop, to which I had been chained for so many years of corporate work, was becoming my lifeline to the outside world.

Glioblastoma is insidious. It spreads quickly and can spring up from a few cells to a full-fledged tumor that impacts daily living in a matter of weeks.

If I don't own my own life, who else will?

I've been too tired to post much for a few days. Or maybe more precisely, too tired to think about what to post.

Do I have what it takes to help my young family survive my husband's terminal illness?

If your kid goes to a therapist weekly, a peer grief group monthly, and a grief camp for a few days in the summer—which would be a lot of grief work, by the way—there are still somewhere around three hundred days in the year where it’s all on you, the widowed parent, to figure out what to do.

The question 'How are you' would usually throw me into an existential tailspin. It seems like such a simple question--but it would cause fits of uncertainty in me almost every time.

I had no guidebook to tell me what to say to the kids--nor the time to find such a thing, if it even existed.

There are two Santa Monicas. One is a fairy tale of spangled gowns and improbable breasts and faces from the tabloids, of big money and fixed noses and strung-out voice teachers and heiresses on skateboards and even bigger big money; of movie stars you thought were dead and look dead; of terraced apartment buildings cascading down perilous yellow bluffs toward the sea; of Olympic swimmers and hip-hop hit men and impresarios of salvation and twenty-six-year-old agents backing out of deals in the lounge bar at Shutters; of yoga masters and street magicians; of porn kings and fast cars and microdosing prophets and shuck-and-jive evangelists and tattooed tycoons and considerably bigger big money; of Sudanese busboys with capped teeth and eight-by-ten glossies in their back pockets; of Ivy League panhandlers, teenage has-beens, home-run kinds in diamonds and fur coats, daughters of sultans, sons of felons, widows of the silver screen, and the kind of meaningless big money that has forgotten what money is. There is that. But start at the pier and head southeast until you reach a neighborhood of tidy, more or less identical stucco houses separated by fourteen feet of scorched grass. In a number of these homes, you will find families, or the descendants of families, who have lived here since the mid-to-late forties. For them, upscale was a Chevy in the driveway. Mom mixed up Kool-Aid at ten cents a gallon, Pop pushed used cars at a dealership off Wilshire Boulevard, Junior had a paper route, Sis did some weekend babysitting. Nowadays, the house Pop bought for $37,000 will fetch just under two million in a sluggish market, but as Pop loved to say, secretly proud "What kind of house do you buy with the profit? A pup tent? A toolshed in Laguna?

That’s not what this is,” I mutter, raising the beer to my lips. My tone is harsher than I intend when I continue, muttering darkly, “She’s a widowed mom of three; she’s out here doing everything by herself, the least I can do is make sure your terror of a niece doesn’t end up as roadkill or fish food because she has no sense of self-preservation yet. Besides, you all know; I don’t date single moms.” I instantly regret the harshness of my words when Violette’s eyes lose some of that sparkle, and that smile disappears.

Okay, so I’m still waiting for this explanation,” Scottie grumbles, pulling herself up to sit cross legged on top of my counter. “I’m a single mom.” “You are?!” she exclaims, feigning shock. I roll my eyes at her and she laughs. Pointing out the window, she mutters, “Doesn’t seem to be an issue anymore. Next.” “I’m a widow. It hasn’t even been a year since my husband died,” I say, taking another gulp of my wine. Liquid courage. “There’s no timeline on grief or how you choose to live your life,” Scottie counters. “And if anyone has a problem with that, send them my way.

Always do the right thing, my mom had said to me. She was right.