I’m alone in a way I haven’t experienced for many decades. I am getting used to it. Slowly.

These moments stand strong in my memory of two weeks unlike any other I’ve experienced.

I’ve never experienced such grief, or such profound reasons to be grateful.

We knew Evelyn would leave us. We had no idea it would be so soon.

She will never need to wear that coat again.
Never. It’s difficult for me to say that out loud.

I’m alone in a way that will never be remedied. And I’m still coming to terms with that.

A reader asked for advice, and even though this is not an advice-giving blog, his question reminded me of some experiences that may help him.

His email reminded me of fears and frustrations I encountered when I was where he is today. It’s good for me to think about how I’m doing now compared to then.

We discovered new meaning in advice we’ve heard for years: “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

Was I anticipating coziness in an effort to experience what Evelyn and I enjoyed when she was here?

I needed a friend to help me cope with my guilt about what I was feeling.

Two sets of experiences, two adjectives, and one helpful conclusion.

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" What we have experienced, Jesus has said.

We may pray with the psalmist, "How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart?" And we may find from the psalmist a pathway to hope.

It is possible to experience happiness and grief at the same time. A weekend with lifetime friends proved it.

Which is worse? To see a young life snatched away too soon? Or to watch a long life twist to a tortured end?

Everyone who knows about Alzheimer’s anticipates that Evelyn is not doing well. But my new friend asked about me.

Another family vacation without Evelyn. Wonderful—and sad.

Briefly Sunday night I couldn’t contain the negative emotions or stop the agitated outburst.

As the list of difficult or unseemly duties lengthens, my sadness is almost dulled. I feel myself getting weary.