The proverbial saying 'every cloud has a silver lining' conveys the notion that, no matter how bad a situation might seem, there is always some good aspect to it.

Regardless of the many tragedies I’ve faced, I believed my faith in God, my belief in myself, and the love I shared would see me through every difficult time. I never doubted the light at the end of the tunnel. Even when I couldn’t see it or even imagine it, I trusted it was there. 

As I went through the motions of burying my husband, I collected pictures, made a video, chose music, and wrote a eulogy. I went to the funeral home early. Every selected item had its ideal spot, and I set it in its place. Anything less than perfect wouldn’t have sufficed. When friends and family arrived, I assumed the role of hostess, greeting and thanking everyone for attending the celebration of Mike’s life. He deserved to be honored, and as his wife, friend, and lover, I demanded of myself to stand tall and give him every ounce of dignity he earned.

When the service started, my family gathered around me. My eyes focused on the man I loved so dearly. My soulmate. My confidant. My strength. My forever. I vaguely recall hearing the music or the service. When it was time to read his eulogy, I remember someone taking the paper from my hands, but I could not see through my tears. I’d read and read the lines so many times, perfecting each word, so when someone else read them, they were like echoes in my mind. Like a slow-motion movie, I watched family and friends file past the casket, some crying, others touching his hand, all saying their final goodbye.

When the double doors closed, I suddenly realized I was all alone. Not because the room was empty, but because the love of my life, my husband, wasn’t holding my hand. In that very second, my life stopped. I hit rock bottom. My reason for living was no longer there and would never be there again. 

My light went out. My heart shattered. I listened to songs like Rodney Atkin’s “If You’re Going Through Hell” and Elvis’s lyrics of “Lord, You Gave Me A Mountain.” Usually, music led me to where I needed to be. Instead, this time my faith wavered. It wasn’t about not believing; it was about the emptiness. I had a blank page with nothing on it. If Mike was waiting for me, then I should be there. Shouldn’t that be the end of our story?

At that moment, I not only wished my life was over, I believed it was. As I wept hysterically, I kept asking, “What do I do now? Who am I?  How do I find me, or is there even a me?”

When asked by my doctor if I was okay, I didn’t know how to answer. He said I was depressed and prescribed anti-depressants. I never took one pill. Instead, the bottle sat on the shelf, proof that I was fine. I existed, but I couldn't live.

I’d reached a crossroad. What path was I meant to take?  Was I able to function?

Of course, I could. In the months that followed, I jumped into filmmaking with both feet, doing props and food or anything else my son needed. When the film ended, I found myself in Florida homeschooling my three great-granddaughters during Covid. At the end of summer, I returned home in time for all the holidays and prepared for my family to grow from two to six while they searched for a new home, a new school, a new job, and their new life. My son started another film, and I was by his side again while raising three little girls this time. My life was busy.

In the land of the living, I didn’t miss a beat. There wasn’t a moment to spare. The answer to the question was I okay turned out to be no. My mind told me what to do, and I did it. My heart was empty. It was a vessel pumping blood, nothing more. I no longer knew a moment of joy or happiness. The strange thing was I don’t believe anyone noticed except me. 

Then, one day in January, I sat at my computer, signed in to FanStory, and entered a twenty-five-word challenge. Of course, it was sad and filled with grief, but I’d written it. The next day, I wrote another story and continued to write each day. Some were short and others long. Some happy and some painfully sad. I almost quit so many times, questioning where I was going. Would I ever feel the pleasure of writing again? Would my creative juices ever course through my body, energizing my thoughts and opening up new worlds for the readers and me? Or would all my pages stay empty and blank? 

Somewhere along the line, I started to find bits and pieces of myself. I’m not sure I was even aware of it. Often, it was a painful moment, but it was my moment. I wasn’t caring for someone else. I wasn’t doing things for someone else. I was creating and sharing pieces of myself. Little by little, like the flowers pushing through the ground in spring, I was blossoming into me. 

The door opened wider and wider as I kept my promise to write again. I discovered people enjoyed my stories. Their kindness and thoughtfulness lifted me until I could lift myself. Yes, I know I always sign off with a smile, but I think that’s just a reminder more for me than you. Yet, last week while reading reviews, I realized I was smiling and laughing. I answered one friend and then another, thanking them for making me smile, for making me laugh out loud. Of course, they’ll never know how precious that moment was to me. I’d found that silver lining, and a light was glimmering at the end of the tunnel.

Have I left my sorrow behind me? No, but I’m not sure that I want to because that would mean losing the memories as well. It’s the memories that remind me of where I have been, who I am, and what I can still be. I know my world has changed, and it will never be the same until I see my husband again. In the meantime, I keep my promise, and I write because I must always find the strength to Begin Again.