In the forty years Jim and I were together, thirty-six of those were spent at our home in the county in Boyds, Maryland. My peaceful, comfortable life on our five-acre farmette came to a screeching halt with Jim’s diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. Just three weeks later, he went home to be with Jesus. It was fast and horrible.
Grief tumbles surviving spouses into a myriad of directions. Some are paralyzed. Me? I got busy. Maintaining the house and property was a full-time endeavor.
My initial coping mechanism made friends and family cringe. Jim never cared about his wardrobe. So, the week following his funeral, I gave all his clothes and shoes to charity. Over the next 15 months, each time I walked by his empty closet, it was an excruciating reminder of his absence. Discarding everything may have been premature.
I began visiting model homes, desperately wanting to downsize. My priorities included one floor living, a gas fireplace, a garage, and a neighborhood where a landscaping service would deal with the grass. Four local communities had model homes meeting all my needs. Each had a large kitchen, breakfast nook, and a family room with a gas fireplace; slightly different, all nicely appointed. Landscaping crews mowed and mulched; my hopes soared. Wandering into one model’s master bedroom, I needed no more than three steps to do an about-face. Two partially opened doors revealed two closets. That amenity brought back vivid recollections of clearing out Jim’s closet. A loop in my brain welled up an ache in my heart. Any amenity that accentuated my oneness made me miserable, which thwarted any chance to imagine that place feeling at home.
Since my goal was to live alone well, I refused to be weighed down by reminders of that season of deep grief. Friends began praying for the ideal home, specifically with one closet in the master bedroom. When my farmette was under contract, I stumbled upon a model in a nearly completed community. And there it was! A master bedroom with one closet! Grateful, I wanted to do this "alone thing" with confidence.
Three months following settlement, the pandemic of 2020 spoiled opportunities to meet my neighbors. Like everyone, any sense of normalcy was a thing of the past. One closet did little to keep me from feeling isolated.
An evening in September, I attempted to go on Netflix. Getting kicked out repeatedly, I wondered if I had the wrong password. Sixty-six years old, two years a widow, and bored beyond belief, I decided to peruse dating websites. Finding one, I signed up for a three-month subscription. After writing a short bio identifying myself as a Christian and uploading half a dozen pictures, I waited to see if I’d attract any interest. Then it dawned on me. What insane person would date during a pandemic? That thought was followed by, “This could be interesting. Maybe I’ll meet a nice Christian guy to occasionally share a meal in the future?” My expectations were low. Good thing, as I had no clue how bizarre the dating field could be.
Over the next two months, I met ten men for outdoor dining at the Mexican restaurant of my choosing. Imagine seeing photographs online and then trying to decipher who my date was behind a sea of face masks. Awkward! Following each date, my son, and girlfriends instructed me to text with, “Thumbs up or thumbs down.” Once home, I called the girls with details. Oh, there were details all right!
My autumn dates consisted of two nice guys amid numerous caricatures of disasters. A pilot talked non-stop about his flying buddies while showing me at least one hundred digital photographs of various airplanes. Guy number three was way too clingy; I’d dare to say controlling. Number seven took me into a furniture store prior to dinner to shop for his “new” one-hundred-year-old home. His taste was similar to my grandmother’s. Number ten clothes-lined me, attacking my Christianity and political leanings.
I thought, “Why in the world am I subjecting myself to this? Forget the pandemic! Who dates during an election year?” Plus, the servers at the Mexican restaurant gave me odd looks as I arrived with a different man every other week, likely speculating I was an elderly woman in the oldest profession.
Calling friends, I told them I was done. When I verbally entertained the idea of taking Christianity out of my profile, they reprimanded me. “No way, Karen. We’ll continue praying for a man to come into your life who loves Jesus.”
Newly convicted, why in the world would I compromise by dating a man who didn’t share my faith? There was no doubt I was finished with online dating. It seemed impossible, but I was losing my taste for guacamole. The holidays were approaching and I did not want to suffer through one more guy describing his failed relationships.
Minutes before cancelling my dating site subscription, Rick and I connected. During a week of emailing and texting, we quickly discovered an identical sense of humor, and a love of family and friends. Rick’s son, David had been tragically killed by a drunk driver, and we each understood how only our faith in Christ could ease deep loss. Deciding to meet in person, I suggested my usual Mexican restaurant. When the sun set on our midday lunch, Rick smiled, “I suppose we should order dinner or leave.” We left, but continued to see each other daily.
Our attraction to one another was undeniable. Within days, Rick said, “I don’t want to date. Single for over ten years, I’m intentional about finding a godly woman to spend the rest of my days with.” During Christmas, wearing masks, we met each other’s families. By the end of January, a few of my friends were intrigued by my "pandemic mystery man." February became a month of introductions. By March 3rd, we were engaged. Following a mere three-month history, we married on March 13th.
We pulled together our wedding in five days. His two daughters stood with him at the altar. My son Bill walked me down the aisle. At the brief reception in the parish hall, Rick gave an impromptu welcome to our guests. Three of his best friends presented a toast and my girlfriends did likewise. It was a perfect way for those attending to get a sense of us: truly a match made in heaven.
Rick moved into my home, purchased only nine months earlier. He juggled hangers and boxes as he stood at the doorway of my sizable, walk-in closet for one. Stopping, he looked right, then left, then up and down. No doubt, he was taking note of every shelf piled with my linens, clothes, shoes, and file boxes.
“I’ll hire a professional to come in and design this closet for two.”
Seriously?
I often think back to my friends praying for me to find a home with one closet to help ease my grief. Those prayers were answered. Then, the girls rallied, praying for a godly man to share my life.
There’s no need to remodel a believing man. One closet can always be altered for two.
"And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. To him be the power for ever and ever. Amen." (1 Peter 5:10-11).
~ By Karen Rhea Newell
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