Month: August 2022

The Missing Piece . . . You

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

The past weekend was filled with family and many wonderful new memories. My oldest stayed overnight and we cooked meals ahead for my granddaughter who is returning to college. It was also “sleep over time at grandma’s” with my 7 and 4 year old grandsons. And, while all of it added up to a lot of activity in two short days, it was an oasis of joy and a touch of normalcy in a world besieged by a global pandemic, a war in Ukraine, and political scandals, to name just a few of the major events of the last two plus years. When you add in the death of a loved one, specifically, for me, my husband of 27 years, it literally makes my head spin. Given the absence of the physical presence of him in all of this family activity, honestly, I’d be surprised if I didn’t find myself being caught off guard by a “grief ambush.” And, even though it would be nice to get so far ahead of this grief character that I could stop it from interrupting my forward progress in carving out a new life on my own, I can say that these attacks of grief are less frequent and much less intense than they were when all of this was new. It all boils down to not being able to wrap my mind around the fact that I will never see my husband again: never hear his voice say my name — Never touch, hug or kiss him.

So, while the weekend was filled spending time with family making many new memories, it was, none-the-less, bittersweet. In the background there was always the nagging reminder that a huge piece of life is missing from the picture. . . Missing again. Still. Forever. I’m wondering how long it will take for my brain to “normalize” these kinds of situations? Normalize them to the point where my takeaway is just feeling good about it all the next day, rather than being left with a “grief hangover”? I know . . . it’s different for everyone, but for me, at just 10 days shy of 16 months since my husband died, I guess I am not as close to finding a “new normal” as I thought I might be. Darn it.

Work Yet to Do

Death took your life and wiped it away.
Now I'm left here wondering why you couldn't stay.

My mind goes in circles. I feel so confused,
and this life that I'm living is not one I'd choose.

Your absence is in every breath that I take.
Sometimes being "OK" is a feeling I fake.

Yet even though you are forever now gone
the memories of loving you will always go on.

And I'll keep on living, keep doing my best
to pick up the pieces, let God do the rest.

We had a great life and I want you to know
that your memory goes with me wherever I go.

Julieanne Gentz 8-22-22

The struggle is real —- and important.

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment 
Borrowing thoughts today.. . Sometimes it's like someone else has read my mind. Kylie Alger, a certified wellness coach and co-owner of the Well-Woman: Body, Mind and Spirit (kylie@thewellwoman.org) gets the credit for today's thoughts. Thanks, Kylie. This is great inspiration to keep on keepin' on.

     A familiar story about the transformation of a butterfly is, "The Very Hungry Caterpillar." In this children's book, the hungry caterpillar eats and eats and eats until one day he sits on a branch, builds a cocoon, and then viola. . . "Out comes a beautiful butterfly!"
     The butterfly's incredible metamorphosis sounds effortless, but what this simple story doesn't explain is the epic struggle a caterpillar endures to free itself from the confinement of its cocoon. I wasn't aware of such a struggle until I heard another story I will paraphrase here:
     A little boy once found a caterpillar. He took it home, fed it every day, and watched the caterpillar grow until one day the caterpillar built a cocoon. The boy patiently watched the cocoon until finally, a small hole appeared where the butterfly would eventually come out. The boy was so excited, but the quickly became concerned because it looked like the butterfly was frantically moving inside the cocoon, looking like it wasn't making any progress. The poor butterfly appeared desperate, so the boy decided to help --- he hurried to get small manicure scissors and very gently snipped the cocoon to make the hole bigger so the butterfly could easily emerge.
     But instead of big beautiful wings, the butterfly had a swollen body and small, shriveled wings. The boy continued to watch the butterfly, expecting that at any moment the wings would dry out, enlarge and expand to support the swollen body. But it never happened. The butterfly spent the rest of its short life crawling around with a swollen body and shriveled wings. It was never able to fly …
     So what happened? Why was the butterfly crippled? It turns out that the butterfly was supposed to struggle. The hardship of the butterfly working through the small opening of the cocoon is what forces fluid from its swollen body into its beautiful wings. Unfortunately, without the struggle, the butterfly's wings will never develop properly. The boy's good intentions ended up hurting the butterfly.
    Just like a butterfly, we, too, can benefit from our struggles. Without obstacles, we would be denied the opportunity to grow and transform like a butterfly. Without struggles, we could end up like the crippled butterfly, with an inability to soar.
     Without trying to sound cliched, it's like the quote, "Whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger." While struggling usually feels painful, it's often the struggle that builds resiliency. "I am thankful for my struggle because with out it, I wouldn't have stumbled upon my strength," says writer and wellness consultant, Alexandra Elle. 
     Take time to reflect on you life and identify times when you have struggled. With hindsight, you may discover that those were the times you grew the most, as those difficult times offered you the greatest opportunity for personal growth and transformation.
     Take time to reflect on your life and identify times when you have struggled. With hindsight, you may discover that those were the times you grew the most, as those difficult times offered you the greatest opportunity for personal growth and transformation.
     People who recognize their struggles as part of a bigger picture are often able to give meaning to their suffering and find themselves better equipped to take on other challenges when they arise.
     "Whatever we face, we have a choice: Will we be blocked by obstacles, or will we advance through them and over them?" asks Ryan Holiday, author of "The Obstacle is the Way: The Timeless Art of Turning Trials into Triumph."
    If you find yourself in a struggle, don't be afraid of it. And if you haven't struggled in a while, maybe it's time to strengthen your wings by seeking new opportunities for growth.

Groundhog Day — Grieving Style

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

Somedays walking this path alone is still almost more than I can handle . . . .

Hi . . .it's been a while since I posted. Sorry for that. Life gets in the way of my good intentions sometimes. You know the scenario. Anyway, here's why my weekly Sunday post is late.

Friday, August 5, 2022   9:00 p.m.

Hey, Brian
 . . . So, about an hour ago I got home from the retired pastor/spouse yearly summer potluck (a very Lutheran thing to have, right?!). And while I enjoyed myself and feel very much at home with that group of people, the elephant in the room is always that I am there alone. No you. No us. I really don't have any words to describe the emptiness I felt as I was driving the 32 miles to home. A while after I got here I opened up my Facebook page and this showed up, making me feel like I am living my own private version of the movie "Groundhog Day."
                              * * * * * * * * * *
August 5, 2021
Dear Brian,

You are always on my mind. Your smile, the sound of your voice, the mischievous twinkle in your eyes, and that beautiful, soft head of hair that I loved to tousle and run my fingers through. It's strange how memories pop up at unexpected moments. Sometimes they make me smile, and other times they are like a gut punch and tears begin to slide down my cheeks. (I am definitely hard on the eyeliner and mascara since you died!) I have been helping our granddaughter move to her apartment in Iowa City to start her freshman year at the University of Iowa. And while I love the new memories this is making for me, lately, every time I go to the Iowa City/Coralville area I can't get past the memories we made together when you lived there. Those memories are everywhere. I remember the feelings I reveled in those two summers we dated. It's hard to describe how I felt, but I think "content" and "safe" would do a good job of summing it up. When those memories surface, it's like being wrapped in a warm, fuzzy blanket on a cold winter night. Maybe some day they will bring me more comfort than sadness, but right now they just remind me that you are gone forever, and will never be here again for me to reclaim and share with you. And I so badly need a sense of comfort and safety right now. Life in my new reality as a widow makes me feel like a stranger in my own skin. It's as if I am on a trip to a far-off country where I didn't want to go and where I don't know the language or customs. Somedays it takes all my energy to navigate this surreal landscape I find myself wandering it. I know full well I that cannot reclaim the past, and that I must move forward with eyes focused on the future. However, that, as the saying goes, is easier said than done. So, since it's so hard to do those feelings justice by merely putting adjectives down on paper, I wrote a poem. It's the smile I am sending Heavenward to you today, filled with love and precious memories of the time we were allowed to share together here on earth.


                            Morning Muse
                     When I wake up in the morning
                     and remember that you're gone,
                     the tears well up and fill my eyes
                     and I think I can't go on.

                     Then I close my eyes and say a prayer,
                     asking God to help me cope.
                     I pray for strength and courage,
                     to move forward, smile, and hope.

                     I ask for Him to guide me
                     as I go about each day.
                     To hold my hand and walk with me
                     while I search to find my way. 
                     And, while living life without you
                     would have never been my choice,
                     I think that I can make it through
                     if I just can hear your voice.

                     Hear it in the laughter of children,
                     in the words that others say.
                     In the breeze that blows, the rain that falls.
                     In the little things each day.

                     My life will never be the same,
                     but that is nothing new.
                     I just wish that I could have the time
                     to spend more days with you.
                               Much love, 
                                       Julie


                           * * * * * * * * * * 
Wow. See what I mean? Groundhog Day. Death is such a thief. It not only steals someone you love, but so much of your own identify as well. And then, as if that's not enough, it keeps finding ways of reminding  you of what you've lost and will never get back. Even more infuriating is the way, in place of what you've lost, it leaves its co-conspirator, Grief, to follow you around and remind you, at random times, out of nowhere, of what is now gone. That you are alone. I imagine that if Grief could speak, it would  have a voice like the shrill cackle like a Halloween witch, screeching with joy each time it left a reminder that you've died.

But, you know what? The fact that I am cognizant of these things, and am aware they will probably always stop me in my tracks and take the wind out of my sails for a time means that I know what they want to happen: They want to confuse me, get me stuck in the quagmire of despair, make me feel like giving up. But, I love you, and myself, too much to let that happen. And in my book, at this moment in time, THAT is progress.

It was a great 27 year run together, Brian Gentz. I only wish it could have lasted longer.  See you on the Other Side someday.

Love you always,
Julie